ALLEN
The tablet felt like a piece of burning coal in my hand. Primary Suspect. The words pulsed in sync with the blood thrumming in my ears. Elena hadn't just framed Celeste for a corporate crime; she had framed me for the attempted murder of my own father.
"I didn't touch him," I whispered, the rain still dripping from my hair onto the screen. "I haven't seen him since the penthouse confrontation."
"Logic doesn't matter when Elena Moretti is the one writing the police report," Sloane said, weaving the SUV through the tight, industrial curves of the Meatpacking District. "She's been at the hospital for three hours. She played the 'devastated former fiancée' to perfection. The nurses are crying for her, and the police are waiting for you at every exit of the city."
I looked at Celeste. She was huddled in the corner of the seat, her arms wrapped around Gabriel. She was silent, but her eyes were wide, fixed on the passing blur of the city. She was watching her life—the life she had fought so hard to rebuild—dissolve into a criminal record.
"We have to go to the hospital," I said.
"Are you insane?" Sloane barked a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "That's exactly where the handcuffs are waiting."
"It's also the only place the truth is," I countered. "If my father is in a coma, Elena has control of his medical proxy. She can pull the plug and blame it on my 'assault' anytime she wants. I need to see his vitals. I need to know if he's actually dying or if she's drugging him into silence."
CELESTE
"Allen, it's a trap," I said, my voice finally finding its strength. I reached out, grabbing his damp sleeve. "Look at the timing. They frame me, they 'injure' your father, and they name you the attacker—all within an hour. They want us to run toward the hospital. They want us in one place so they can finish this."
"I know it's a trap, Celeste," Allen said, turning to me. His eyes were no longer those of the "Ice King"—they were the eyes of a man who was ready to burn the world to protect his own. "But it's a trap I built. I know the security protocols at St. Jude's. I designed the biometric locks for the VIP wing. If I can get into the server room, I can pull the real security footage of who entered his room tonight."
"And what about Gabriel?" I asked, my heart aching.
"He stays with me," Sloane interrupted. "I have a basement in SoHo. It's a literal vault. No windows, one entrance, and enough snacks to keep a toddler happy for a week. I'll take Celeste and the boy there. You go play James Bond, Allen. But if you're not back by dawn, I'm taking them to Canada."
ALLEN
Thirty minutes later, I stood in the shadows of the ambulance bay at St. Jude's. I was wearing a stolen set of blue scrubs and a surgical mask, my pulse a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I bypassed the first biometric scanner with a thumbprint—a ghost of my former access that hadn't been revoked yet. The VIP wing was eerily quiet. The scent of antiseptic was suffocating.
I reached Room 902. Two uniformed officers stood at the end of the hall, but they were distracted by a woman in black.
Elena.
She was standing by the nurses' station, her face a mask of tragic elegance. She was holding a handkerchief to her eyes, but as she turned, I caught a glimpse of her expression. She wasn't crying. She was smiling.
I slipped into the utility closet adjacent to my father's room. Using a portable deck, I tapped into the hardline.
The data began to scroll. I wasn't looking for the heart rate; I was looking for the toxicology report. My father had a heart of stone, but it was healthy. A sudden "collapse" made no sense.
There it was. Succinylcholine. A paralytic.
He wasn't in a coma because of an injury. He was paralyzed, awake but unable to move or speak. Elena was keeping him alive as a silent witness while she stripped his empire.
Suddenly, the door to the utility closet opened.
I didn't have time to hide. I lunged, my hands reaching for the throat of whoever had entered, but a small, cold barrel pressed against my temple stopped me dead.
"I knew you'd come for the data, Allen. You were always so predictable."
It wasn't Elena. It was Anastasia Thorne. She was holding a silenced pistol, her eyes gleaming with a feverish, desperate light.
"You're working for her?" I hissed. "She'll kill you the moment you're no longer useful."
"Maybe," Anastasia whispered, her finger tightening on the trigger. "But by then, I'll have your signature on the transfer of shares. Now, walk. We're going to see your father. He's been waiting for you to 'finish the job.'"